


Brown Eyes

by PajamaSecrets



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Character Study, First Kiss, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28066713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PajamaSecrets/pseuds/PajamaSecrets
Summary: “Mayfeld,” A familiar voice rang out.No way. No kriffin’ way did Mando find his ass in this sleepy little town in the far reaches of the Outer Rim.(Of course he did. It’s Mando. The best bounty hunter in the damn galaxy. He shouldn’t be so surprised.)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 25
Kudos: 443





	Brown Eyes

“Mayfeld,” A familiar voice rang out.

No way. No kriffin’ way did Mando find his ass in this sleepy little town in the far reaches of the Outer Rim.

(Of course he did. It’s Mando. The best bounty hunter in the damn galaxy. He shouldn’t be so surprised.)

Mayfeld turned to see his old crewmate in the doorway, leaning with one hand on his hip. His armor seemed to have a couple more scores and dents than last time he saw it, but it looked shiny and polished as usual.

“Mando,” Mayfeld said with a nod. He looked at the ground near Mando’s boots, then up past Mando’s shoulder, saw a ship in the distance—not the _Crest_ , Mafeld noted—but he still didn’t find what he was looking for. “So, uh... did you get your kid back?” He tried to broach the subject delicately.

Mando nodded, moving his cape aside to reveal the little green guy taking a nap in what looked like a tote bag at Mando’s hip. Mayfeld’s shoulders relaxed a little—he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t fretted over that little guy.

“I’m glad he’s safe,” he said.

Mando didn’t say anything in response, just stood there. Mayfeld cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “So, uh, why are you here? Is this because last time, I, uh—you ain’t here to kill me, are you?”

“According to your chain code, you’re already dead,” Mando said flatly.

“Yeah, so no one would know if you offed me right here,” Mayfeld grumbled, half to himself. “Why _are_ you here, then?”

“I need your help,” Mando said.

Mayfeld let out a heaving sigh. _Dank ferrik_ , he’d _just_ started to have some semblance of peaceful life, and now the moody metalhead was back to throw a wrench in things. A shiny, beskar-plated wrench.

But Mando was his former friend—his old crewmate, his trusted ally in another time. And he threw that trust down the privy when he left him on that prison transport ship—or, rather, _failed_ to leave him on that ship. But Mando still sought him out, asking him to help infiltrate an Imperial base to save his kid, and—well, things went sideways.

He tried not think about it, seeing Mando stripped of his beskar, his helmet, his Way that he held so dear. He had looked completely helpless, had _acted_ completely helpless, those big brown eyes wide and wary. Mando had saved his skin so many times back in the day that he’d be an ass if he didn’t stick his neck out to help him—so he did, facing his old superior with his heart beating in his throat. (He’d be lying if he didn’t have a personal stake in that—the guilt of Operation Cinder hung on his back every day of his life, and if there was any way to atone for his sins, he’d take it.)

Not to mention Mando let him go at the end of it all. Mayfeld was sure he was a goner for seeing his face. Mando was essentially the entire reason why he wasn’t in prison—why he was able to live this new life.

Suffice it to say, he owed him one.

“Well, come in,” Mayfeld said, gesturing to his humble little house.

–

“We need a place to lie low for a while,” Mando said, sitting at Mayfeld’s kitchen table, the kid on his lap. “And, well, you’re a ghost. No one’s looking for you. It was hard for me to find you, and that’s saying something.”

“Good to know I haven’t totally lost my edge,” Mayfeld quipped. “Can I get you anything?”

Mando didn’t reply.

“Oh, right. Helmet. Forgot.”

Mando just shrugged. “I think the kid could eat, if you have anything.”

Mayfeld nodded, turning to open his pantry. “What kinda stuff does he eat?”

“Anything, really,” Mando said. “He likes meat the best.”

“I got Bantha jerky,” Mayfeld said. “That work?”

“Should do fine.”

Mayfeld opened the packet and handed the jerky to the kid, who grabbed it greedily and immediately ate it in one bite. The little guy burped, looking up at Mayfeld with eager eyes.

Mayfeld clicked his jaw back from where he had dropped it. “Um. I’ll go get him another one,” he said, turning back to the pantry.

Mando let out a breathy noise—was that a _chuckle_? “Good idea.”

–

Mayfeld set Mando and the kid up in the spare room. He fashioned a crude cot out of an old shipping crate, and the kid seemed to like it well enough.

The other villagers were skeptical of Mando at first, keeping a wide berth whenever he walked into town. However, as soon as Mando proved himself to be trustworthy, they opened up to him, making small talk in the village square and letting their children play with his. The kid probably made things easier—he was clearly a good father, and that was always an endearing trait in a man. He even helped with basic handiwork around the town.

Mando was out on such an occasion today, leaving Mayfeld alone to take care of the kid.

He was playing with a little silver ball, transfixed by it, cooing and turning it around in his little hands. Mayfeld chuckled despite himself—he never really liked kids, but he couldn’t deny that this one was special—and adorable as hell.

“You’re a funny little guy, aren’t ya?” Mayfeld remarked, tweaking the kid’s nose. The child giggled, then dropped the ball in his crib, reaching his arms up to be picked up.

“You want up? Alright,” Mayfeld said, slotting his hands under the kid’s armpits and hoisting him in the air. The kid gurgled, snuggling into Mayfeld’s chest.

“He likes you,” came a voice from across the room.

Mayfeld looked up to see Mando looming at the doorway.

“Against his better judgement, I’m sure,” Mayfeld said.

“He sees the good in people,” Mando said, and Mayfeld swallowed back a lump in his throat.

–

“I’m making myself a drink,” Mayfeld announced to when Mando came home one night, the kid asleep in his chair at the table, a fire crackling in the stove, warming the space. Mando was wearing his beskar, but had shirked his boots at the door, padding across the room quietly and picking up the kid.

“Make me one, will you?” Mando asked before walking to the spare room, presumably to put the kid to bed.

Mayfeld raised his brow. Was Mando gonna drink in front of him? He’d probably just take it back to his room. In any case, Mayfeld poured two glassfuls of spotchka and set them on the table, sitting down and taking a sip.

Mando quietly closed the door to the spare room and shuffled over to the table, taking a seat across from Mayfeld and grabbing the glass of spotchka in front of him. With his other hand, he titled up his helmet just enough to reveal his mouth and took a big gulp.

–

The night went on, as did the drinking, and soon they were reminiscing over the old days, of spice-running and ore-smuggling and bank-robbing. They pondered on their various crewmates, an eclectic bunch of shady characters, the ill-fated ones that only lasted a short while and the ones that stuck around.

“ _Kriff_ , remember that time Xi’an seduced a Hutt for information? That was messed up,” Mayfeld said.

“I think she enjoyed it,” Mando said. “She boasted about it for months.”

“Can’t believe you were okay with that,” Mayfeld remarked. “She was your girl an’ all.”

“She wasn’t mine,” Mando disagreed.

“Oh, come on, you two were always sneaking off to get frisky in the ’fresher,” Mayfeld said with an eyeroll before downing another sip of spotchka. “She was your girl.”

“I suppose,” Mando said.

“I wonder what that’s like, doing it without seeing... y’know,” Mayfeld gestured at Mando’s helmet. “All that time bangin’ Xi’an and she never snuck a look?”

“I wouldn’t call bad handjobs _banging_ ,” Mando said.

“Really? You never went all the way?”

Mando simply shook his head.

“Dang, she didn’t even blow you? That ain’t very courteous.”

“Would _you_ let a Twi’lek do that?” Mando said, incredulous.

“Oh. Right. Fangs.” Mayfeld grimaced.

“Fangs indeed,” Mando said, lifting up his helmet to gulp down some more spotchka.

Mayfeld couldn’t help his curiosity. “So no one’s ever had a problem with it? During... activities?”

Mando shrugged. “Not exactly what they were after,” he said.

“True,” Mayfeld said, polishing off his glass of spotchka and trying not think of Mando below the belt.

A realization dawned on Mayfeld. “Wait,” he said, “that means you’ve never kissed anyone?”

Mando simply shook his head.

“ _Dank ferrik_ , Mando, you’re missin’ out,” Mayfeld said.

“Can’t miss what you don’t know,” Mando said, matter-of-fact. He raised his helmet another time to finish off his glass, his mouth wet and shiny.

_I_ _can show you what you’re missing_ , Mayfeld wanted to say, but the words died before they reached his tongue.

–

After a long day of helping the villagers hunt—his Imperial sharpshooting proved useful to this town—Mayfeld returned home, his portion of the meat bundled under his arm.

He was greeted with the sight of a very naked Mandalorian running after his kid, who had stolen Mando’s helmet, his little green feet scampering across the floor with surprising speed. Mando’s hair was wet, assumedly having taken a shower (which would also explain the nudity), and Mayfeld tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. There were those big brown eyes again, that beautifully hooked nose, the ridiculous gorgeousness of him. Not to mention the broad expanse of his bare shoulders, his torso speckled with scars, his belly soft over what Mayfeld knew was powerful muscle. He couldn’t help but look at his cock between his legs, nestled in a dark thatch of hair, and Mayfeld just _knew_ he was big even if he wasn’t hard, and Maker help him, he shouldn’t be looking, but it was _right there_.

Mando stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he saw Mayfeld. “ _Kriff_!” He yelped, one hand reaching to cover his crotch, the other to cover his face.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, Mando, it ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” Oh, _ferrik_. “N-not your face! I meant your dick—I mean, not _your_ dick specifically, but dicks in general—oh hell, Mando, I didn’t see nothin’.”

(But he _had_ seen Mando’s face before, all those months ago, and no matter how hard he tried to forgot, not a day went by where he didn’t think about how ridiculously kriffin’ gorgeous those brown eyes were—)

Mayfeld scrambled to grab the kid before he ran any further, plucking the helmet off of him.

Averting his gaze, he tapped Mando on the shoulder and handed him the helmet.

“Thank you,” Mando said quietly before putting it on his head.

“No prob. Uh, I’ll let you get dressed,” Mayfeld said, his voice breaking.

–

Mando emerged from the spare room, dressed in his sleep pants and a loose shirt. Mayfeld’s face flushed, averting his gaze.

“I didn’t see nothin’,” Mayfeld reiterated.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Mando said dryly.

“I—I mean it, Mando. I don’t want you to feel like you betrayed your Way an’ all that.”

Mando sighed, leaning against the counter next to where Mayfeld stood. Mayfeld tried not to shiver at the proximity.

“I’ve already broken the Way,” Mando said quietly. “When you saw my face—when those Imps saw my face—it was over.”

“But the Way as I knew it isn’t the Way for all Mandalorians,” Mando continued, and Mayfeld remembered Fett, how he didn’t seem to care about his helmet being on. “I can... I can find my own Way.”

“I guess everyone has to,” Mayfeld said. “Find their way. Figure out how to live in this bitch of a galaxy. Try to do some good. It’s the least we can do.”

Mayfeld stopped talking when Mando raised his hands to his helmet, beginning to lift it off.

“Whoa, whoa, bud, you don’t need to—”

“I want to,” he said, lifting it off the rest of the way.

Mayfeld gazed in awe at the man before him, losing himself in those deep brown eyes.

“I... I need to get used to it,” Mando said, his voice now unmuffled and unobstructed, “I... need to be ready if I have to remove it again. And... the kid should see it, too. More often, I mean.”

Mayfeld didn’t respond, just kept gazing at Mando’s face, noticing a fading scar across the bridge of his nose, the light dusting of freckles on his cheeks, a gray patch in his stubble...

“Mayfeld?”

Mayfeld open and shut his mouth a few times, but no sound would come out.

“Mayfeld, what’s wrong?”

“ _Kriff_ , you’re gorgeous, you know that, Mando?”

A blush bloomed on Mando’s face. He looked away.

“Din,” he said.

“Huh?”

“My name is Din.”

“Din,” Mayfeld said, and the word felt heavy in his mouth, like he wasn’t worthy of saying it. “Din.”

Mando— _Din—_ smiled softly, and it was the most beautiful thing Mayfeld had ever seen.

Mayfeld realized he was drifting closer, hovering inches away from Din’s face. He could feel Din’s hot breath on his mouth, saw him lick his lips.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Mayfeld said.

“ _Please_ ,” Din whispered.

Mayfeld leaned in, pressing his lips against Din’s, soft and gentle. He pulled away after a short while, not wanting to overwhelm him.

Mando reached out for Mayfeld’s face. “Do that again,” he said, his voice commanding.

Mayfeld smiled before leaning back in. “Anything for you, Brown Eyes."


End file.
